


A Twice-Told Tale; or, The Maiden and the Monster

by silverr



Category: Original Work
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Cultural Differences, F/F, Post-Wedding, Self-Discovery, Wooing, vaguely regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25731319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverr/pseuds/silverr
Summary: Princess Constance Prudence Primrose of Rihkama was less than thrilled when she was wed to a barbarian from a far-off-land, but after the wedding she assumed she'd be able to avoid her unwanted spouse and simply go on as before.About this, as well as several other things, Princess Constance Prudence Primrose of Rihkama was mistaken.
Relationships: Princess/Barbarian
Comments: 11
Kudos: 43
Collections: Original Works Opportunity 2020





	A Twice-Told Tale; or, The Maiden and the Monster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sharken (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/gifts).



> The primary prompt written to was **Prim And Proper Princess/Female Barbarian She Married Politically** , but I did work in a _little_ dash of "Librarian of a Magical Library" as well.
> 
> Grateful thanks to **Prinzenhasserin** for beta and encouragement. (I touched it last, though, so any mistakes that remain are mine!)

.

.

Prudence was on her way to the library of the Autumn Palace when she heard the tittering.

"Oh, it's _awful!_ I can hardly stand to look at it!" 

It sounded like one of the court ninnies, dewy-cheeked and empty-headed and utterly interchangeable, had been left behind when the rest of the court returned to the capital. Prudence didn't recognize the voice, so she hung back in a shadowed alcove around the corner to eavesdrop. Who was the ninny talking to in such an out of the way place? Had they stayed behind for an assignation? Was someone going to take liberties? What if their lover was married? That would be exciting.

"Throw that away this _instant."_

To her disappointment, Prudence recognized the second voice: Duchess something or other, a widow with several young, pretty, marriageable daughters. Ninnies all.

"Disgraceful, is what it is," the duchess went on. "A mockery. I don't know what they were thinking. It's made our country a laughingstock."

"But it's so true!" the daughter giggled. "It's beast and beast. Or beast and old ugly one."

"Hush," the mother said. "You'll be her age some day, my dear."

"You won't ever marry me off to a horrible barbarian, will you momma?" 

The voices were becoming fainter: the duchess' "Certainly not," was the last thing Prudence heard. 

She peeked around the corner. The corridor was empty; on the glossy stone floor was a crumpled bit of paper. 

She hurried to pick it up. It was a page from one of the anonymous penny gazettes. Usually such cowardly publications were about political matters, but this time the content was more personal. It was an engraving of a wedding procession in a chapel. At the rear were the king and several ministers, their pockets overflowing with gold and treasure; at the front, two women, both wearing bridal veils and chaplets. One of the women, dressed only in fur smallclothes, was grotesquely swollen, as if her breasts and muscles were made of inflatable bladders, and was tattooed with prices and accounting symbols; the other, covered in what looked like book binding boards that flattened and erased every sign of her femininity from her feet to her nose, had a cadaverous face and grey hair. The congregation was saying things like _What a Beautiful Sight!_ and _It Brings a Tear to My Eye!_ Beneath the engraving was the caption _The Blessed Nuptials of Princess Constance Prudence Primrose of Kihkama and Julma of Eramaa._

It wasn't a bad likeness, Prudence thought bitterly as she smoothed and folded the page before slipping it deep into her pocket, except that her hair hadn't yet turned fully gray.

.

The library of the Autumn Palace was her favorite place in the world. Not only was it four times larger than the royal library in the capital—the holdings on alchemy and magical theory alone were the best in the world—but, other than the librarian, she was almost always the only person there, and had it to herself for hours at a time, as it seemed that a library was one of the last places anyone thought to look for anyone. 

Not that anyone looked for Prudence: she was rarely needed.

Today, however, was an exception. Cadbury, one of the few royal guards who had made the effort to learn her habits, approached her after she'd been there less than a quarter of an hour. "Your Highness," he said, dropping to one knee, "the ambassador urgently requests an audience."

"Tell him to come here and talk to me," she said, scanning the shelves for her favorite book.

"He is unable to do that, Your Highness."

She stopped her finger in the middle of a row, and after impatiently gesturing him to rise, said, "Why?"

Cadbury looked evasive. "He is indisposed."

"And yet he sends you to me with a supposedly urgent request?"

The guard looked around quickly, as if worried they'd be overheard, and then said, quietly, "Your… wife has tied him to a chair."

She eyed him for a moment before making her way back to the librarian's podium, a small wooden mini-tower complete with crenellations in the center of the library, from which the Royal Librarian, an ageless, bespectacled person who today was dressed in a black cassock and an elaborately curled blue-violet wig, surveyed their domain. "Kirjasto," Prudence called up to them, "where is my copy of _The Maiden and the Monster?"_

Of all her father's servants, Prudence liked Kirjasto the best; not just because they revered books as much as she did, but because they always wrote _For Prudence_ on her hold slips. Prudence was her favorite of her given names. Hidden in the middle, she considered it the name that represented her true self: self-disciplined, rational, and wise. The complete opposite of 'Primrose,' which sounded like a ninny, and different to 'Constance' as well, which she disliked partly because it was always prefaced by the title of 'Princess.' Something given, not earned. Then too, 'Constance' always made her think of thermometers and barometers, objects valued for being reliable and utilitarian. Not the most flattering of virtues.

Kirjasto leaned over the edge of the podium. "Set aside up top just for you," they said, "out of reach of cartoonists. Shall I bring it down?"

"You are a treasure," Prudence said. "No, continue to keep it safe for me, as I have a matter to attend to. I will be back to read it soon." 

And then, turning to the guard and raising her eyebrows, she said, "Let's go."

.

Ambassador Petri had, at the king's order, spent the last several months travelling to a land so far away that it wasn't even marked on older maps, enduring rough seas and treacherous mountain passes and arid deserts, all to fetch Prudence a bride she did not want.

His reward was for this was to indeed be tied to a chair in his chambers. It seemed there had been somewhat of a struggle to get him there, however, as his wispy white hair was disheveled, his brocade jacket was askew, and his pale skin had acquired a bilbous, slightly greenish cast. The chair at his writing table was overturned, and a drift of papers was scattered across the rug.

The cause of this disorder stood in front of him, arms akimbo.

Julma of Ermaa, the savage to whom Prudence had been married less than a week before, was dressed, as usual, in her barbarous leathers, clothing that clearly was designed, not for warmth or protection, but rather to show off the swirling dark-blue tattoos running up each side of her body from ankle to shoulder. Muscled far more thickly than any proper Rihkami woman would ever be, a head taller than the average Rihkami man, even then Julma might have been considered somewhat attractive if not for the shortness of her reddish-purple hair, the tattooed blue stripes that slashed across her face, and her insistence on carrying a sword and wearing a ragged fur pelt as a cape, indoors and out, at all times.

In other words, while the caricature in the gazette had been an absurd exaggeration, it did have some basis in truth.

"Why isn't she wearing Rihkami clothes instead of those stinking animal skins?" Prudence asked. "She's been here over a week." While her father and the rest of the court had gone back to the capital, Prudence and Petri had been left behind at the Autumn Palace to tutor Julma in Rihkami customs and the manners expected of a civilized person. 

"Alas, explaining why she should make changes to her wardrobe would take someone far more fluent than I." Petri was supposed to have taught Julma the Rihkami language during their journey back for the wedding, and while he had apparently failed spectacularly at that, he had at least picked up enough of the barbarian language in the past few months that he could facilitate basic communication.

"Is that why you are tied to the chair?" Prudence asked. "Because you asked her to put on something appropriate?" She could not bring herself to add _for a royal consort._

"No, I believe she thought threatening me was the only way to compel you to see her." 

"Why would I want to see her?" Prudence asked. She had not seen the barbarian since the treaty-signing, which had taken place immediately after their travesty of a wedding—an event that had itself been carried out with the minimum number of witnesses and just enough ceremony to be legal.

Petri looked astonished. "Have you been _avoiding_ her, Your Highness?"

"Of course I have been avoiding her! This absurd marriage was only arranged to serve some byzantine purpose that my father and his ministers will never deign to explain to me." She felt tears, hateful tears, welling up, and tried to blink them back; she wanted her fury to be undiluted. "I can picture it now! How they must have congratulated themselves when they saw that their plan would also accomplish the task of crossing me off the list of unsavory problems! The unmarriageable eldest daughter who keeps her younger, prettier half-sisters off the marriage market!" She glared at Julma as a lump clawed its way up her throat; as it burst out she half-sobbed, "What did _you_ do, I wonder, that they forced you to shackle yourself to an ugly, bookish spinster like me?"

There. She had finally said it.

"Princess... " Petri looked utterly dismayed. "That's not—"

Prudence wanted to slap him. "Don't patronize me, Petri, or insult me by pretending it's not what everyone is thinking!" The tears were now a full deluge.

Julma had been pretending to follow Prudence and Petri's conversation by thrusting her head forward and looking from one to the other; now she said, "Prim?"

This snapped Prudence out of her wallow. "No, that's not my name! It's Princess Constance Prudence Primrose! Of Kihkama! It's not that difficult!"

"Prim," Julma repeated with a self-satisfied nod.

The tempest spent, Prudence threw up her hands. "Another unreachable goal," she said to Petri, "but hen again, you can't make a crystal goblet from a pile of mud." She motioned to Cadbury to untie the ambassador, but as soon as the guard moved, Julma drew her sword and said a long string of gibberish, and Cadbury froze.

"What now?" Prudence asked Petri.

"I _think_ she is saying," Petri replied carefully, "that she will not allow the guard to untie me unless you agree to go riding with her tomorrow morning."

"Why would she want to do that?"

"I couldn't say."

"What if I agree now and just don't show up tomorrow?" Prudence asked, thinking that the barbarian's ignorance of Rihkami was a boon.

"I expect she will tie me up again," Petri said.

.

The morning was cool; gauzy clouds softened the sun. 

Prudence enjoyed riding. She had acquired her gray mare, Cumulus, as a colt nearly twenty years before, and over the years Cumulus had developed such a slow, smooth gait that riding her was like floating down a river.

Satula, The Master of Horse, led Cumulus from the stable. An elderly man with extravagant white moustaches and flawless posture, Satula had supervised the stables at the Autumn Palace for more than fifty years. He was the only person other than Kirjasto who had offered Prudence any comfort after her mother died; the two of them, and the domains they commanded, were what made the Autumn Palace feel, not just bearable, but like Prudence's true home.

As Satula supervised the placement of the stepping-stool that would enable Prudence to seat herself side-saddle, Julma rode in on a roan stallion—although "rode" was an inadequate word for the entrance. The high-stepping mount pranced sideways into the cobbled courtyard, its hooves scattering a fanfare of overlapping echoes.

"Beautiful animal," Satula said, then eyed the soldiers of Prudence's royal guard sharply, making it clear without words that he would not tolerate the sort of disrespect that would have a crude man adding anything along the lines of _and the stallion as well._

Julma brought her horse up next to Cumulus, watching with apparent interest as Prudence carefully arranged the skirt of her brown riding outfit over the side saddle pommel.

"Petri dislikes riding," she said to Julma, even though she knew she won't understand, "and won't be joining us, so don't bother to speak to me. Save your questions for later."

And then the gates were opened. The main palace in the capital was surrounded by the crush of a city, but here, at the Autumn Palace, meadows and gentle hills soothed the eye in every direction.

The group turned south once they exited the gate, plodding across a field of wildflowers toward the line of trees that marked the edge of the forest. Prudence kept her eyes straight ahead, ignoring the bulk of Julma that hovered at the edge of her vision.

After several minutes she heard Julma say something, then was startled when Julma's horse, impatient with Cumulus' serene pace, abruptly galloped ahead and out of sight.

"High-spirited," Satula observed.

Prudence felt… well, she couldn't put words to how she felt as Julma dwindled and then disappeared over a low rise. Vaguely irritated? Definitely, but that wasn't quite all of it.

It was another quarter hour before it came to her. Upset. She was _upset._ Julma had supposedly expressed a desire to spend time with her, and now she had ridden off? It was ridiculous and irrational, but even so it hurt to receive what felt so like a rejection. 

They had been riding under the shade of the trees at the forest's edge for several minutes when there was a distant shout, as sharp as the crack of a rifle, from the direction that Julma had gone.

Satula pulled up and stopped, and the guards made a protective circle around Prudence.

Another few moments passed with nothing but scattered birdsong and the drowsing of bees, and then, preceded by a louder whoop, Julma appeared over the rise. She held her reins with one hand and with the other— 

"What is she carrying?" Cadbury asked, shading his eyes with his hand. "Has she actually brought down a—"

"A wild boar," Satula said approvingly. "Yearling male, I'd say. We'll certainly eat well as long as she's here."

Prudence suppressed a small shudder. Yes, as a member of the royal family Julma could now kill as many animals on the estate as she pleased.

As the victorious hunter rode up to the group, tossing her kill to one of the guards—the poor man staggered—Prudence noticed a profusion of wildflowers erupting from the center of Julma's chest, and was mortified to realize that the barbarian had tucked the stems down her ample cleavage.

The flowers did not stay there long, however, for as soon as Julma's horse sidled up next to Cumulus, the barbarian pulled out the large, unkempt clump and held it out to Prudence with a wide, mischievous smile.

Prudence hesitated, but then, realizing that it would be supremely rude not to take a gift so publicly offered. 

As Prudence reached out to take the bouquet Julma's horse moved slightly, just enough that Prudence had to lean out further; as she did, Julma unexpectedly brought her horse in close, snaked an arm around Prudence's waist, and pulled her off her horse and across her lap—and then, with Prudence sitting on her thighs, Julma galloped off again.

Prudence, her left arm trapped against Julma's chest, heard laughter explode behind them. "You tricked me!" she shouted at the side of Julma's face. When Julma urged the horse to go even faster, Prudence said angrily, "Stop that! They're not even following us!" 

She had never been so close to the barbarian before, and the only time they'd touched previously was when Julma had placed her hand over Prudence's at the beginning of the abbreviated wedding ceremony, when the spouses-to-be-put their hands on the ancestral stone for the Hierophant's blessing. Prudence had pulled her hand away immediately after the pronouncement of the bond, and had stayed as far from Julma as possible in the small room until the treaty had been signed and she could flee.

Now, sitting across Julma's lap, their faces at the same height, her left breast pressing against Julma's, for an instant Prudence thought, _There's nothing wrong with touching. We are married, after all._ She glanced down, briefly mesmerized by the way Julma's breasts moved beneath the upper edge of her leather chest-piece, rising and falling with every motion of the horse and rider, but then wrenched her eyes up. "Where do you think you're taking me?" she demanded. "Put me down!" She looked back over Julma's shoulder. Why weren't Satula and the guards following them?

As they came upon a field of knee-high wildflowers Julma slowed the horse to a walk, then stopped, and Prudence wondered if Julma had carried her off to assassinate her. It made chilling sense: if the only reason for the marriage had been to pave the way for the treaty, once the treaty was signed was there any use for the temporary spouse? 

Julma eased Prudence off the horse—to Prudence's surprise she was still clutching the remains of the tatty bouquet—and then dismounted. After loosening something on the saddle, Julma took the horse's reins in one hand, and held her other out to Prudence.

Apprehensively, Prudence took it, and they began to walk through the field. She wondered why it was necessary to go quite so far to slit her throat. 

At last they crested a small hill. Below, a grove of fruit trees curved around a small, perfect pond. Julma pointed to a spot where a patch of long fine grass lay as smooth and soft as a carpet. 

Taking it as a command, Prudence sat down, and watched Julma water and tend to the horse. 

There was something comforting about seeing the barbarian take care of such a beautiful animal, and in the obvious bond of affection between horse and rider. The sight made Prudence oddly certain she wasn't going to die.

When Julma was done with the horse she washed her hands in the pond, and then brought Prudence a peach and a pear. When Prudence shook her head, Julma tossed the pear to her horse, bit into the peach just enough to hold it in her teeth, then pulled down a branch of each tree, low enough that Prudence could have picked her own.

Mystified and just slightly flushed, Prudence shook her head a second time. She was becoming increasingly confused: Flowers? Gifts of fruit? What was going on here? Was Julma _wooing_ her?

Julma shrugged, let go of the branches, then sat down and noisily ate several peaches before laying back on the grass with her hands behind her head, closing her eyes as if for a nap.

Prudence, wishing she had thought to bring a book, began to sort through what remained of the wildflower bouquet. When she found a plant she didn't recognize, she took the folded gazette page from her pocket, intending to take the specimen back to the royal botanist for identification.

She had placed the flower on the unfolded page and was on the verge of asking Julma to pull down the branches again—the aroma of ripe fruit had intoxicated her senses into surrender—when she realized that the barbarian had sat up and was looking at her—or no, not Prudence, but the gazette page.

Before Prudence could hide it Julma reached over and took it, examining it with a puzzled expression.

Prudence expected her to be insulted by the cartoon, but Julma only chuckled and then held up one of her arms, bending it to accentuate her overly-muscled bicep, then looked pointedly at Prudence, as if asking if her muscles were really so large as in the drawing.

"No, they're not," Prudence said. "It's just mean-spirited entertainment for the masses. Don't let it bother you." She held out her hand for the page, and when Julma gave it back to her she re-folded the page, tucked the flower inside, then shoved it into her pocket.

At this Julma jumped up, brushed herself off, and began to ready the horse for the trip back.

Prudence assumed they wouldn't be walking, as the horse's galloping had brought them quite far. As she had no intention of sitting on Julma's lap again, she brusquely pulled the back of her skirt up between her legs and tucked it into her waistband—something she had seen peasant women do when they needed to ride astride—so that she could sit behind the barbarian on the way back. 

She shook her head when Julma made as if to lift her up. "I don't need your help," she said. Unfortunately, it was difficult to put her foot in the stirrup, as the bulky fabric of the dress made movement difficult; after a moment Julma put her hands under Prudence's backside and gave her an assist.

"I could have done it," Prudence said angrily as she settled herself in the saddle, but then, forcing herself to be civil to the person who had not assassinated her, she added, "but thank you."

Unexpectedly, Julma did not mount, but instead took the stallion's halter and jogged alongside at a slow-trot, after a time becoming sheened with sweat.

To Prudence's great relief, Satula and the royal guards were not waiting under the trees where Prudence had been abducted, and thus she and Julma were able to slip into the palace courtyard without being seen by anyone but the guards at the gate. 

Once inside, Prudence quickly dismounted and rearranged her skirts in a corner out of sight of the courtyard's windows. She was determined not to feed the gossip about her any more kindling, especially when so many things about the ride had unsettled her. 

Needing to take comfort in the familiar, she hurried off to the library as soon as Julma led the horse into the stable.

As always, Kirjasto somehow not only knew Prudence was coming, but knew what she wanted to read, and stood waiting at the base of the podium with her favorite edition of _The Maiden and the Monster._

"Lovely flower," Kirjasto said as they handed her the book.

Prudence glanced down at her dusty riding skirt; a bedraggled, wayward bloom clung to a fold of the drab fabric. "Yes." It was the same as the one folded into the gazette page, so there was no need to save it. 

Kirjasto reached beneath the counter and brought out a sheet of translucent parchment. "Perhaps you would like to press it in the book? Books appreciate the beauty of nature just as much as we do."

Prudence thought this was nonsense, but as there was no harm in indulging Kirjasto she plucked the flower off her skirt, laid it on the paper, then folded the paper in half and placed it inside the back cover. "Thank you," she said. 

"Enjoy."

There was a secluded nook in the southwest corner, hidden from all but the most peripatetic library patrons, where the sunlight poured in like draperies of gold. Prudence settled down into a deep, well-worn velvet chair and opened the book. 

_The Maiden and the Monster_ had been her favorite book for as long as she could remember. Even before she could read she had been captivated by the tipped-in watercolor plates of this particular edition, and the moment she saw the delicately tinted illustrations she felt all the tension and confusion of the morning fade away. 

As she grew older she had memorized the tale, and then collected and read dozens of versions, savoring both the similarities and the differences. Usually the widowed father—there was never a mother—is a merchant, but sometimes a king. Sometimes the family has fallen on hard times, and others not. There are always three daughters: two vain and cruel, concerned only with riches and marriage, and a third who is kind and gentle and selfless, and sometimes bookish. The father always goes on a journey, and asks his daughters before he leaves what gifts he should bring them on his return: the two ask for material goods such as jeweled combs or fancy dresses or domestic items made of solid gold, but the third asks only for a rose or a sprig from some common forest plant. Usually the father falls into misfortune on the way back, and loses the purchases for the shallow daughters; sometimes he also gets lost. Eventually he comes across a magical castle or garden or tree, picks the flower or plant for the third daughter, and the Monster appears. Sometimes the Monster is a lion, or a huge, slavering dog, or an enormous boar with razor tusks, or a serpent, or a demon, but the important thing is that it is always male, always hideous, and always demands, as compensation for the trespass and theft, either the father's life or the life of one of his daughters. One way or another, the third daughter eventually becomes the repayment. Her experiences in the Monster's domain, and her subsequent interactions with her family, vary a great deal, but she is always torn between loyalty to her family and the promises she has made to the Monster. In the end, the Maiden's growing bond to the Monster breaks a curse and results in her being rewarded with riches and a throne, while her sisters are punished or simply forgotten.

Over the years, the aspect of the story that appealed Most ot Prudence had changed. When she was very young, she'd been fascinated by the idea of invisible servants who instantly brought anything one asked for, and by the fact that the third daughter—the youngest in most versions, but she'd learned to ignore that detail—was not only different from her sisters, but the one that the father clearly loved the best. For a brief time after that Prudence had been starry-eyed over the idea that virtue was rewarded, but that phase hadn't lasted long. As she got older, she'd come to cherish more and more the Maiden's independence and self determination, especially in the versions that made her a lover of books and comfortable with solitude.

Today, however, Prudence suddenly saw from a new perspective. The Maiden had made a heroic sacrifice by binding herself to a hideous Monster, but in so doing she had restored her family's honor and good fortune. Was Prudence not in a similar position? Even though Prudence's marriage to the barbarian had been arranged without her consent, it was ostensibly intended as a way to strengthen her family, and by extension the whole of Rihkama. Wouldn't it be better to live up to the Maiden's example, and embrace her filial responsibilities with more enthusiasm? To continue to fight something that had already happened would make her look unpatriotic and petty.

She closed the book with a snap and took it back to Kirjasto.

"You look like a woman filled with determination," Kirjasto said as they took the book from Prudence with gloved hands. 

"I am," Prudence said.

.

When the King and the court were in residence at the Autumn Palace, the meals served in the Great Hall were lavish. Five courses, sometimes more, made with rare and expensive ingredients, and in such quantities that two-thirds of each meal went uneaten. 

Prudence had expressed her disapproval of this wasteful extravagance so often that, as soon as the King and the majority of the court had left the Autumn Palace for the capital, meals in the nearly-empty palace became simple, almost haphazard affairs. The princess was served in her rooms, as were the few remaining dignitaries, while Petri, lesser important visitors, and the guards ate in the kitchen or at the tables in the kitchen-yard.

After learning that the boar Julma had killed that morning was already being roasted, Prudence told Cook that she'd like to invite everyone to sit at table. "A small feast," she said. "I don't think we need the Great Hall, as there are so few of us." 

"But Your Highness—" Cook's expression was a war between indignation and propriety.

"I neither want nor expect five courses," Prudence said. "My intention is only for us to eat together in conviviality. Serve whatever you would otherwise be taking to each person's room this evening." Noting that Cook still seemed embattled, Prudence added, "Perhaps an appropriately-sized table could be brought into the music room?"

Cook looked surprised, then nodded slowly. "Yes, that could be arranged."

"Very well. Send someone to inform the guests."

Prudence then went off to find Petri, and then her wife.

She found Julma in Petri's chambers. The ambassador, books and slate in hand, apparently was still hoping that Julma would one day master the Rihkami language, but from Julma's slumped posture and bored expression, the seeds of knowledge were not falling on fertile ground.

Julma's expression brightened when she saw Prudence. "Prim!"

Prudence suppressed her sigh. "We're having dinner in the music room tonight," she told Petri. "I'll attempt to take over teaching her Rihkami manners."

"Surely you're not serious?"

"I am entirely serious. Your approach hasn't worked. Perhaps a different one will."

Petri inclined his head, acquiescing. "We many only hope."

"Where are the clothes they made for her?"

"I had them sent back to her rooms." He coughed delicately, then added, "Aside from those that are being mended."

"Why do they need mending?"

Petri glanced at Julma, then said, "She tested the sturdiness of the seams. The seams were inadequate."

"She tore them to shreds?"

"Well, yes."

"I see." Prudence, realizing that she had no idea where her wife's rooms were, said, "Explain to her that—" She hesitated. "Explain to her that it would mean a great deal to me if she would sit next to me tonight dressed in something appropriate." A flush spread over her cheeks. Silly, really; all she was doing was making a reasonable request!

Julma watched Prudence intently as Petri spoke. When he was done she spoke a few words, then held out her hand.

"What does she want?"

"She says she'll take you to her room and you can pick out what you want her to wear."

.

The dresses, hung in a wardrobe, were not only of outdated design, stiff brocade with nipped-in waists and skirts requiring an underskirt and at least one petticoat to look right, but looked ludicrous due to the amount of fabric required to clothe someone of Julma's height and size. "I hope whoever made these for you knew you wouldn't tolerate a corset," Prudence said. "If they didn't, the contours will be wrong." 

However, a stylish morning gown made of a heavy, blue-black silk with a subtle floral pattern caught Prudence's eye. High-waisted, with soft pleats falling from a wrapped bodice that would provide at least some support, it had full straight sleeves that could be wrapped in long, detachable cuffs of the same material. Entirely inappropriate as formal wear, but at least it was not made of leather or fur, and would cover all of Julma's tattoos other than those on her face.

Prudence took the blue gown from the wardrobe and turned to Julma. "I think this will do," she said, and then stopped, mouth agape.

Julma had removed all her armor, and stood entirely naked. She had tattoos _everywhere._ Quite without shame, she moved to Prudence and touched the blue gown, nodding in approval.

Prudence, who felt as though her cheeks would melt, quickly turned away to lay the gown on a nearby chair and managed to gasp, "You'll need to wear a chemise beneath that. And shoes or slippers, not those horrible boots."

.

A half hour later, Julma's transformation was complete.

The barbarian's complete lack of shyness about her nudity had gradually enabled Prudence to be somewhat matter-of-fact about it as well. After miming that Julma should use the washing-up basin—with soap!—Prudence went through the room's many wardrobes and chests until she found a long chemise, finely-woven stockings, and a pair of black slippers couched with gold thread. She shook her head: each slipper was almost twice as long as her hand.

Prudence debated whether to call one of her own attendants to help Julma dress, but the thought of the possible avalanche of titters that might result convinced her to perform the services herself. "I wish you could appreciate that you're the only woman in Rihkami with a princess for a ladies'-maid," she said as she demonstrated how Julma should hold her arms so that Prudence could put the chemise on her. "Where are invisible magical servants when I need them?" As she pulled the chemise down, she accidentally brushed against one of Julma's breasts. She jerked her hand back in embarrassment, but Julma seemed unfazed.

Next were shoes. After Prudence grimaced at the odor of her unbooted feet, Julma had washed them, but absolutely refused to wear stockings. The slippers were a little tight on her bare feet, but Julma seemed to admire them nevertheless.

The gown, once Prudence had figured out the fastenings, fit better than expected. Prudence pulled up the chemise just enough so that ruffles of linen peeked out from the edges of the bodice, and overall, it was a pleasing enough effect that Julma, after peering into the mirror and then turning back and forth, agreed to leave her sword in the room.

She did, however, manage to tuck a lethal looking dagger into her cuff, an addition that Prudence didn't discover until they were back at Petri's rooms.

Petri was clearly impressed with the change in Julma's appearance, but before he could do or say anything Julma had unleashed a torrent of words.

"She asked me if you have only one dress," Petri said when she had finished. His eyes were sparkling with suppressed amusement. "She says that as she was given many, you can take as many of them as you like."

Prudence laughed. It felt so strange she realized that she couldn't recall the last time she had done so. "Tell her that as a princess I have many, many dresses," Prudence said, and turned to go. 

Julma said a single word, and Petri said, "She wants you to wait, though I don't know why."

Prudence turned back to look. Julma was frowning slightly, as if wrestling with a decision; she then began to animatedly look around Petri's sitting room until she spied a small wooden box on a sideboard, which she snatched up and offered to Prudence.

"Oh yes, I'd nearly forgotten," Petri said unnecessarily. "She brought you a wedding gift."

Reluctantly, Prudence took and opened the box. 

Inside were tumbled stones as large as plums, in colors ranging from pale topaz to cinnamon brown. Strung on braided wire, the stones looked like lumps of congealed honey; appropriately, perhaps, the clasp, fashioned of a coppery metal, was in the shape of a honeybee.

"Tell her thank you," Prudence said. "I think I have a dress that will go with this quite well."

.

Prudence could recall to the day the last time she'd worn the saffron-yellow gown: Midsummer, the year before her mother died. Prudence had been eighteen, and had spent so much time outdoors riding and drawing and collecting botanical specimens that year that her skin had been lightly tanned by the time of the solstice celebration. The gown had been of unorthodox design at the time, a slim silhouette to be worn without an underskirt and with only a single petticoat. A column of satin, embroidered with sunbeams and constellations of golden circles. According to her mother, it made Prudence look like the personification of Summer herself.

Memories collided with reality as Prudence pulled the gown from the bottom of the storage chest. Wrinkled from being folded for so long, when she held it up before the mirror it was clear it would not fit the way it had twenty years before, and neither would its vibrant yellow-orange color flatter Prudence's now much paler complexion. 

She almost put the gown away, but then thought, _When did I become so colorless?_ She could not recall the last time she had worn anything but black or gray or brown.

She held the dress against herself and looked into the mirror. The saffron _did_ warm the brown of her hair—or at least those strands that were still brown—and complemented the amber perfectly. Perhaps if her hair was arranged down? It would frame the necklace as well as cover her lack of earrings, especially if she put pads of lambswool under her breasts to lift them and fill out the bosom properly. And a wrap of pale yellow silk around her waist would disguise the loose fit around her hips.

The maid's pained smile as she explained what she wanted was disheartening, but once Petri had seen her he was nearly speechless with delight. He bowed deeply. "Your Highness," he said, "you truly look like a future queen."

Julma, copying Petri, also bowed, and said, "Prim." She seemed pleased that Prudence was wearing the necklace.

"What protocol do we follow?" Prudence asked. "For entry into the dinner?"

Petri bit his lip nervously and shrugged. "The highest-ranking male among our company is Master Satula, but… "

"But a Master of Horse is hardly equivalent in rank to a future queen," she said dryly. "Well then, Julma and I will escort each other in. After all, it's an informal dinner, not a banquet."

.

Satula, impeccably dressed in a crisp black uniform and polished boots, was waiting at the music room door. The corners of his mouth lifted in the faintest of smiles at the sight of them. He moved to stand next to Petri behind Prudence and Julma.

The only guest who appeared was the Duchess—"Arvostelu," Petri whispered in Prudence's ear as she approached.

"Duchess Arvostelu, I'm so glad you could join us," Prudence said as she took both the Duchess' hands in hers. Recalling the duchess' characterization of her marriage as a disgraceful mockery that had made Kihkama into a laughingstock, she added with secret glee, "Have you met my esteemed consort"—she did stumble over the word a little, but also had the satisfaction of seeing the duchess flinch—"Julma of Ermaa?" 

The Duchess looked as if she had suddenly got a whiff of something extremely repellent, and made a very slight attempt to pull her hands back; when Prudence didn't release them, she pursed her lips and said, "What an unusual necklace, Your Highness. I am reminded of your mother's choker of golden pearls. Has it been lost?"

Prudence understood that this question was meant to imply that the pearls would have been more appropriate jewelry for the gown, so she replied frostily, "No, but the amber makes a more intriguing contrast, does it not? I've heard that unfaceted gems will all the rage in the capital next season." 

The duchess, however, had been sharpening her tongue for decades longer than Prudence. "Indeed? Sadly, I cannot afford to be current with the latest fashions."

"Where is your dear daughter Ahteri this evening?" Petri asked, as if he had just noticed that she was missing.

"She suffers greatly from headaches," the duchess said with cloying sweetness, "and begs Princess Constance to forgive her absence."

"Of course we forgive her," Prudence said. "Should a physician be sent for?"

"Oh, no no, I'm certain all she needs is some time in a dark, quiet room with a damp cloth on her forehead."

 _Yes, it will cool all that empty space,_ Prudence thought. "I'll have some nourishing broth sent to her room."

"That is most kind, but in no way necessary."

"But it is! I cannot possibly enjoy my dinner as long as I know that your poor Ahteri is suffering." 

"You are most kind."

As they entered the music room the duchess sniffed and asked, "Is it just we five?"

"Yes," Prudence said, taking her place at the head of the table. "We have dispensed with formality for the evening, but if it would please you, you may be seated at my right hand as the guest of honor."

"As you wish," the duchess said, in a way that conveyed how very not pleased she was. She waited for Petri to pull out her chair, but missed the look he threw to Prudence as he said, "I hope you won't think it impertinent if I sit next to you, Your Grace?"

The duchess waved her hand airily. "Be seated, Ambassador Petri."

Prudence gestured at the chair across the table from the duchess and said to Julma, "Please sit at my left hand, dear wife." She knew that Julma wouldn't understand the words, but the gesture had been clear enough.

Satula sat next to Julma, across from Petri, and with all the guests seated, the meal commenced.

The first course proceeded in silence, but otherwise went reasonably well. Through the soup, fish, and hare dishes Julma waited to begin eating until she observed what Prudence did, and then copied her precisely; she sipped the wine when Prudence did, cut her food as Prudence did, and dabbled her mouth in perfect synchrony.

None of this was missed by Duchess Arvostelu, who somehow managed to eat while smiling a malicious, increasingly smug little smile. "Your wife is fluent in Rihkami?"

"No," Prudence said, "but fortunately Ambassador Petri speaks Eramaa. And there are many ways to communicate without language."

"Indeed?" The duchess lifted a morsel of food to her lips, chewed, swallowed, set her fork down, and then said, "It must be very like having a tamed wild beast as a pet, I suppose? Like the ones you see in the circus. Some of then can even be taught to do tricks!"

Prudence glared at the duchess; past her, she could see Petri's almost comically distressed expression.

Satula cleared his throat and took a long swallow from his goblet.

Just then the roast boar was brought in. It looked enormous on the small table, and obviously was much more food than their party could have eaten if it was three times larger, but Prudence knew that the remains of tonight's meal would live on in a succession of pastries, soups, and jellies.

Satula stood to carve. "We have Princess Julma's hunting prowess for this bounty," he said, drawing the carving knife briskly along the sharpening steel. 

And then Julma reached over, tore off a hind leg and a good portion of the surrounding haunch, set it on her plate, and looked challengingly at the duchess. 

The Duchess gasped in shock.

Prudence took a deep breath, then asked the Master of Horse if she might have the other hind leg.

Without missing a beat, the old man deftly carved out the portion, then placed it on a platter. As it was set in front of Prudence she said to Julma, "It's customary to slice the meat from the bone." Demonstrating, she added, "and then share the choicest morsels with our guests."

Julma watched intently, but then, with a wolfish grin, pulled the dagger from her sleeve and, locking eyes once again with the duchess, cut her boar leg in half, _bone and all._

At that point the duchess fainted, and Prudence pronounced that dinner was over.

.

With the assistance of the guards, Satula and Petri saw the duchess back to her rooms. 

As Cook and her bevy of servants began to clear the table, Prudence went to sit in a chair by one of the tall French doors that opened onto the balcony. Julma, obviously remorseful for her contribution to the disastrous evening, brought a footstool near Prudence's chair and sat silently, occasionally patting Prudence's arm.

 _She really is like a big dog at times,_ Prudence thought, watching raindrops course down the glass in meanders of silver. _Mischievous, eager to please, but also knows when she's done something wrong_.

A while after the bustle was done, Petri returned, moving whisper-quiet across the carpet. "The duchess is safely back in her rooms," he reported. 

"Thank you." Prudence covered her eyes with her hand. "It's a lost cause, isn't it?" she asked wearily.

"The duchess?" 

Prudence shook her head. 

"Ah." Petri set the candle he was carrying on a small table near Prudence's chair, then knelt in front of her. "Not necessarily," he said, "but such things take time, and patience, even when people who know each other well beforehand marry for love. As you learn about each other, as each finds out what is important to the other, they can make adjustments, or…" 

Prudence took her hand away from her eyes. "Or what?"

"Or they can accept that they will always clash together like surf against the shore, and simply find a way to endure."

"Is that my future?" she asked. "Simply enduring?"

Petri didn't answer; he just patted her hand a few times, and then left.

Prudence closed her eyes. She was tired; she supposed she should make her way to her rooms and go to sleep.

She was dozing off when a draft of cool air washed across her, and the sound of raindrops suddenly became much louder.

She opened her eyes. Julma had unlatched the door to the balcony, and was standing holding her hands out to the rain. 

"You're going to ruin your gown. And the carpet."

Julma turned, but instead of closing the door she pulled Prudence out of the chair and led her outside. The raindrops weren't cold, but neither were they warm, and Prudence shivered.

Julma turned to face her, and then embraced her. Just enough of the candle's glow washed over them for Prudence to see that Julma was looking down at her with an expectant expression.

Was Julma waiting for permission to kiss her?

Prudence had been kissed before, mostly by visiting kings and princes attempting improprieties, but those kisses had angered and disgusted her because she had known that she was nothing more to those men than an anonymous lump of mousy flesh, something they thought they could seize with impunity. 

This moment was nothing like that: yes, Julma's desire was palatable, but in sensing it Prudence felt only joy, and an answering eagerness. She rose on her tip-toes, and, as a burst of raindrops sprinkled over them like a handful of cast confetti, pressed a light, carefully-chaste kiss against Julma's lips. 

Julma returned the kiss without hesitation, and a magnificent wildness leapt in Prudence's blood, a fierce hunger that almost made her want to claw and howl.

And then she pulled away, confused. What was this? Where had this part of her come from? It was nothing and no one she had ever been before; neither Constance nor Primrose, and certainly not Prudence. It was utterly _other,_ and it frightened her beyond comprehension. She pushed Julma further away. "No!"

Julma looked surprised, and then hurt. 

Prudence knew that if the other woman reached out for her she would be lost, and so she said quickly, "This is not—I cannot —I am sorry!" 

And then she picked up her sodden skirts and ran back inside, out of the rain and the welcoming darkness and into the cold, empty safety of the candle's light.

.

Prudence didn't feel as though she couldn't sleep, and so, despite her wet clothing, she went to the library instead of returning to her rooms.

There was a single lamp burning on the lending desk; next to it, wearing a white nightcap over their heavy pewter-colored curls, Kirjasto, in a dark purple robe, sat waiting with a pot of tea, two cups, and a soft, heavy shawl.

Prudence was beyond asking how the Librarian knew she was coming; she simply wrapped the shawl around herself and took a warm cup of hot tea into her cold, shaky hands. After a few sips, she leaned over the cup to let the steam caress her face.

"What brings you to the library at such a late hour?" Kirjasto asked.

Prudence didn't want to relive the disastrous dinner by recounting it, so she said only, "I'm not sure. I didn't feel like going to sleep. I suppose I'm hiding."

"Would you like something to read?" Kirjasto waved a hand around vaguely. "I am sure we can find something to interest you."

Prudence sighed and said with a half-laugh, "Is there anything that will help me learn a language overnight?"

"That might depend on the language."

"Eramaa. Is there a book for that?"

Kirjasto said thoughtfully, "The language of your wife. What you want to say is important?"

Prudence swallowed. "Yes. Very."

"Words are sometimes painful."

"Not having the words is more painful." Prudence had spoken without thinking, but she knew what she had said was true. "Speaking them might make the pain stop."

"Did you know," Kirjasto asked as they refilled Prudence's cup, "that 'Eramaa' is simply the name we gave the blank place on our maps when it was no longer blank? We named that far land 'Wilderness,' but those who live there might call it something else."

Prudence didn't see how this was relevant, and meant to say so, but Kirjasto was looking past her, at something behind her, and Prudence turned to look.

It was Julma.

Kirjasto lit a second lamp, took two books from under the library counter and tucked them into the crook of their arm, then led Prudence and Julma back to Prudence's corner. 

A cold silver blade of moonlight fell across Prudence's chair; somehow it was now wide enough for two.

Kirjasto set down the lamp and the books on a small table in front of the transformed chair. "Please, sit."

As Prudence seated herself next to Julma she finally got a look at the books Kirjasto had brought. The larger had a shimmering cover that was somehow very unsettling if looked at for more than a few seconds at a time; the smaller was Prudence's copy of _The Maiden and the Monster._

Kirjasto indicated the shimmering book. "This creates a temporary bridge for as long as you both are touching it. Open it to any page and read what you see, but you must be careful to read _only_ that single page."

Prudence nodded. Setting _The Maiden and the Monster_ aside, she cautiously picked up the shimmering book, placed the spine of the book in the space between herself and Julma, then took hold of a corner of the front cover. Once Julma had done the same with a corner of the back cover, together they gently pulled the book open.

The page displayed only a single sentence. _"I hear you as you speak Rihkami,"_ Prudence read from the page on her side, but then Julma said wonderingly, in perfect Rihkami, _"I hear you as you speak Kunniakas_."

Prudence looked up in amazement; Kirjasto was smiling. "Very good," the Librarian said as they began to back away out of the lamplight. "Remember, the book's spell works only as long as you both hold it. And read only the page you see now, no other."

Prudence nodded, and then looked at Julma. 

Julma was smiling. "Hello, wife," she said. "I'm delighted we can at last speak to each other."

Prudence felt unaccountably shy. "Hello." The lamplight made Julma's hair blaze, even as it made her facial tattoos look less fierce. "This is very strange. I don't know what to talk about."

Julma looked at the table. "I am curious about the other book the shaman brought. Perhaps we could explore it together?"

"Shaman? You mean Kirjasto?" Prudence laughed. "Kirjasto isn't a shaman! They're just the librarian." But then she looked down at the writing on the page, and wondered. "The book on the table is one of my favorites."

"Oh! Display it to me, and explain why you esteem it?"

Julma's Rihkami was charmingly old-fashioned, and Prudence smiled again. "I'll try. Can you reach it?"

"Easily." Julma leaned forward and picked up the book with her free hand, then placed it in the center of the open magic book, between their two hands.

"It's the illustrations that make this edition special to me," Prudence said, turning the pages with her free hand. 

"What about them?"

It was still so odd to hear Rihkami words coming from Julma's mouth. "The atmosphere, and the… oh, I don't know. They all seem so _real_ to me."

"You enjoy all the players in the story equally?"

"No, I admit I have a special love for The Maiden."

"Why?"

"She… " No one other than the Librarian or her mother had ever asked her this. "She's kind, and patient, and unselfish, and courageous, and inquisitive. And also observant and self-sufficient." 

"Admirable qualities."

"Yes." Prudence turned to the next plate, which was an illustration of the three sisters.

Julma leaned over the book, and read haltingly, _"The two eldest had a great deal of pride, because they were rich. They gave themselves ridiculous airs, and would not visit other merchants' daughters, nor keep company with any but persons of quality. They went out every day to parties of pleasure, balls, plays, concerts, and so forth, and they laughed at their youngest sister, because she spent the greatest part of her time in reading good books."_ She leaned back. "These sisters do not sound as admirable."

"They're not."

"Do you have sisters?"

"Half-sisters," Prudence said, paging ahead to the next illustration, "from my father's second marriage. They live in the capital."

"You do not like them."

Prudence pressed her lips together, then said, "No. They're ninnies."

"Ninnies?" Julma repeated. "What is this word?"

"It means someone foolish and frivolous."

"What makes them so?"

"They… " Prudence frowned; she did not want to talk about her sisters any longer. "They are only concerned with parties and dresses and trinkets and gossip."

"You do not like them because they are different from you?"

Prudence exhaled noisily; she wasn't accustomed to having to defend her opinions. 

Julma was quiet for a few moments, then said, "I like this word 'ninny.' It is a like a buzzing insect."

Prudence turned to the next plate; the father, lost in a storm, the rose his daughter had requested shining like a beacon in the tangled, threatening landscape.

"So the daughter's desires lead to the death of the father?" Julma said.

Prudence stared at her. "No! That's not—" and then she stopped, because it was true, in a way; the request for the rose, the only thing the daughter said she wanted, did at that point in the story seem as though it would lead to the death of the father. "This happens near the beginning of the story; many more things happen before the end." She began to summarize, but before she had finished, Julma broke in.

"So the story revolves around the sacrifice of the daughter, because of an oath sworn between the father and the monster?" 

"I—it can be seen that way." That perspective on the story had never occurred to her until recently; how had Julma seen it so quickly? 

"Do _you_ feel sacrificed," Julma asked gently, "because of the treaty between your country and mine?"

Prudence felt a flush of shame darken her face; without thinking she put both her hands up to hide it, realizing an instant too late that she had broken the spell.

The weight of the books disappeared, as Julma put them on the table so that she could put her arm around Prudence.

"I've ruined everything," Prudence said. "How are we going to talk without the spell?"

"Book is not needed," Julma said, in much less elegant Rihkami than she had previously been using. "We have Rihkami for many weeks."

"Wait, what?" Prudence pulled away. "You—all this time you've been lying?"

Julma bristled a little. "No one asks if we know Rihkami. They all say we do not, so we keep the truth from leaving our mouth."

Stunned, Prudence stared at her. "But if you had said something, _anything,_ in Rihkami, we'd have known you understood us!"

"Why should we do this? You were unpleasant when we met," Julma said. "You and many others. We thought to watch you more, see what quality of people you were. Some were good, Satula, Cadbury, Kirjasto, but still we thought to leave. To force a bond that makes such unhappiness is not honorable." Julma reached up and touched the neckline of her gown. "But now we have understanding. You snarl at us because you do not want to be given as sacrifice. Now we will bring happiness, and be welcome."

Prudence barely heard her. "That day you tied the ambassador up…"

"Such good plan!" Julma said, obviously relishing the memory. "Your face says that you will agree to anything we ask if it will rescue the small bird man, so we make you to go riding."

Prudence felt a fresh wave of shame. She had said so many nasty things when she thought that Julma wasn't able to follow the words! She had talked about how much she hated being forced to marry, and how she had avoided Julma since the ceremony, and even how she planned to lie to avoid spending time with her, all of this right in front of Julma, and now to know that Julma had not only understood everything Prudence was saying, but had chosen to repay cruelty with kindness? Julma had brought her flowers, and offered her peaches, and tried to make her laugh. Julma had even set aside her leathers and sword in an attempt to please her, and had withstood the duchess' relentless insults. "I am so sorry that I was rude to you," Prudence said, knowing it was an inadequate apology.

Julma shrugged. "It was words only." 

"Nevertheless, I am sorry."

"The day when Petri is in the chair you ask, why do we come to Rihkama? We tell you now. No punishment to come here, only excitement to see new people, new lands outside Kunniakas. My elders think a princess will guide us well to new knowledge. Also, this treaty between our countries brings trade and fresh ideas, and gives your father gold Kinniakas was not using."

The unexpectedness of what Julma had said startled Prudence back to attentiveness. "You came out of curiosity about the world? That's very adventurous," she said. "I had no idea you had such thirst for knowledge! It almost makes you more the Maiden—" and then she froze, overtaken by a thought so horrifying that it was like being crushed in an avalanche. If Julma was the Maiden—and despite her forbidding exterior she was all the things Prudence had enumerated moments before, patient and courageous and inquisitive and observant and self-sufficient—what then did that make Prudence?

Was she— _was she the monster?_

She bent over and wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. "I'm the monster, I'm the monster!" 

"No," Julma tried to take her hands. "No, no, no, this is not true." 

But Prudence was too swept up in emotion to accept comfort. A storm of sobs ripped from her throat, and rivulets of tears dripped onto the saffron gown as Julma stroked her hair and said over and over, "No monster here. No beast. No circus animal or pet."

At last Prudence began to calm; she exhaled heavily, and wiped her face, composing herself as much as she was able. She felt raw and empty, as though she had expelled buckets of poison. "I know you can't see it, but I do," she said at last, "because in some ways I _am_ a monster. Cruel and impatient and hateful and covetous. All those things I accuse others of being."

"Everyone is sometimes hateful for one hour," Julma said. She dragged the shawl up from where it had fallen on the floor and draped it around Prudence. "But the day has many hours after that."

"Not only am I too old for love," Prudence said bitterly, still not quite ready to relinquish her self-loathing, "I'm completely undeserving of it."

Julma didn't respond to this, but asked instead, "Your book, what is the end?"

Prudence sniffled and pulled the shawl tighter. "The Maiden finds out the Monster is dying and realizes that she loves him," she said. "When she rushes to him to profess her love it brings him back from the gates of death, and also releases him from the curse that enchanted his castle and made him hideous."

"And after this they have a happy marriage?"

"Yes."

"Alright," Julma said. "Hear me, Princess Constance Prudence Primrose of Rihkama, whose pale eyes threaded with blood are like clouds of sunset—"

Prudence smiled a little and ducked her head shyly.

"What, is wrong?" Julma asked, teasing. "We should call you 'Prim' once again?"

Prudence glanced up at her. "You did that simply to annoy me, didn't you?"

"Yes," Julma said. "Small fun. No harm?"

Prudence sighed, almost laughing. "No, no harm. You were saying?"

"Yes, was saying," Julma continued, "your age is of no matter to us. Hair that is woven with silver is a sign of wisdom." She put her fingertips under Prudence's chin and lifted it, then stroked Prudence's cheek with a calloused thumb. "A young woman is like newly-tanned leather, stiff and sometimes dull. Much better when she is a little worn, with some wrinkles." She paused and gave a sly smile. "Also, kisses are more interesting when lips are softer." She then became serious and pressed her other hand to the base of her throat. "But most cherished and most honorable is one who does not flee from difficulty. Even in anger, you explain the drawing of disrespect. You help us bathe, and wear our gift, and guide us at table. You take our kiss, and share with us your precious story." She paused. "Is this not enough love to break a curse?"

And then, her heart soaring, Prudence realized that it was, it was.

.

.

The End.

.

.

.

.

_© 2020 All rights reserved. First post 08 August 2020; revised 13 October 2020_

  


**Author's Note:**

> Additional thanks to my language consultant **Mipeltaja**.
> 
> Petri is a hat-tip to the ambassador of the same name in "Elaan of Troyius."
> 
> I relied primarily on Jacobs' and Beaumont's versions of _Beauty and the Beast._ (It is from [Beaumont's version](http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/beauty.html) that Julma reads.)


End file.
